


Safeguard This Hallowed Heart

by blackidyll



Series: Hallowed Heart [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), SPECTRE (2015), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels, Courtship, Gift Giving, M/M, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-05-13 19:11:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5713894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackidyll/pseuds/blackidyll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where breaking an angel's heart has dire consequences, James Bond (Double-O agent, consummate flirt and infamous heartbreaker) decides to court MI6's primary and only celestial being in residence – namely, the Quartermaster. </p><p>All of MI6, from the newest Q Branch recruit to M himself, takes exception to this. </p><p> </p><p>(Canon fic, with the AU element that Q is an angel in addition to being the Quartermaster).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safeguard This Hallowed Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [containerpark](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=containerpark).



> Written for [00Q Reverse Bang 2015/2016](http://00Qreversebang.tumblr.com)! 
> 
> As always, all my love to my beta [Milaryn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Milaryn), who kept me sane, weeded my writing of unnecessary words and commas, tweaked sentences and pointed out plotholes and above all, gave me constant confidence boosts with the best reactions to my writing. Any and all further mistakes are mine alone. 
> 
> And of course, all my praises and gratitude to [containerpark](http://containerpark.livejournal.com) for the adorable and inspirational artwork and prompt. Credit for the premise of the fic and the artwork belongs to her; please give [containerpark](http://containerpark.livejournal.com) lots of love for her art!

 

* * *

   
Q Branch  
MI6 Research and Development Division

**Memorandum**

Subject: **Quartermaster**

To: **All MI6 field agents** (Intelligence - IE Branch, IAS Branch, IAM Branch, IMEA Branch; other specialized/classified groups)

Date: 22 January 20XX

\--

It has come to our attention that some MI6 personnel are unsure of how to interact with MI6’s primary and only celestial being in residence – namely, the Quartermaster. As such, the combined section leaders of Q Branch have put together a short list of recommendations that should broadly govern each field agent's interactions with the head of our division.

Do keep in mind that these are general guidelines, and that the Quartermaster's expressed preferences should always come first. However, if you are new and/or do not have a standing relationship with the Quartermaster, ignore the below at your own peril: 

  1. As this is an informal memo, **do not share this with the Quartermaster** (we will know, and you will not like what we will do to you).


  1. Return all your equipment in one piece. This goes for all items, whether they are three million pound prototypes or standard-issue communication devices. Not only will the Inventories staff thank you dearly, it also prevents Q from thinking up increasingly creative and terrifying ways of permanently anchoring equipment to you agents. He also gets extremely disgruntled when he needs to file more budgetary paperwork.


  1. Do not attempt to bribe the Quartermaster, even with innocuous seeming gifts such as baked goods or cats (real or in electronic form). He will see through your bluff, and static shocks aren’t good for the felines. If you bring brownies or pictures of your cats in good faith, however, they will generally put him in a good mood.  
  
Remember - good faith. No ulterior motives. This is for your own good.


  1. Do not ask if the Quartermaster has wings. He does, and you will not be able to see them. There is currently no good circumstance in which he will manifest them – if their silhouettes appear, initiate Code Red immediately, contact your direct superior or the Chief of Staff, and do not approach. Q can handle himself. You cannot handle a powered-up angel.


  1. Do not break the Quartermaster's heart.


  1. Do **not** break the Quartermaster's heart. The mythology holds elements of truth, but we do not know to what extent. It is not something we intend to experiment with. You have heard the stories. You know the rumours. Don't. Push it.


  1. This memo is issued on paper to avoid leaving an electronic trail. Please dispose of it through your usual methods once you finish reading it.



\---

  
  
_1._

It isn’t out of the ordinary at all for mysterious packages to appear at Q’s public workstation – he handles the upper tier of MI6 agents, after all, with their specialized equipment and attaché cases, each customized to the specific agent. Sometimes it’s one of the Q Branch sections dropping off components – custom Kevlar-lined jackets from Weapons and Engineering or a new formula of explosives from BioSci – and other times it’s the agents in question dropping off their gear after a mission. The various cases, containers and kits are a common sight and are often banished into the background.

Then there is the other variety of packages. This one clearly falls into that special category and catches everyone’s attention immediately, from Lisha – always the first one in during morning shifts – to Ricco –who comes in with his arms full of comms device parts fresh from Inventories.

Their eyes are all trained on Q’s worktable when Q makes it in, hair tousled but eyes focused under his glasses, likely contemplating some conundrum or other because he makes it halfway towards his workstation before he notices the team’s uncharacteristic silence. He scans the room, his eyes falling on what everyone else is already staring at.

“It’s hardly election season,” he says wryly, pulling the strap of his messenger bag over his head and dropping it by his chair. “So it must be a personal request.”

The Q Branch staff exchange glances, and finally Lisha pipes up. “It was already on your workstation when I came in, sir.”

Q nods once, acknowledging the statement and dismissing the team in one go, but they all keep an eye on their quartermaster even as they turn back to their work. The sturdy black case sitting square in the middle of Q’s workstation is reminiscent of the kind that houses jewellery or expensive watches, cuboid in shape and tied closed with a length of ivory silk. One end of the ribbon extends out to form a mooring hitch knot, secured around the stem of a white feather, and Q barely gives the beautiful display a second glance before he tugs the ribbon loose, the feather fluttering free, unheeded. The lid opens up easily enough – it speaks of quality – and then Q makes a quiet noise of surprise.

Around the lab, Q Branch staff peer over their monitor screens, curious.

Almost as if reading their thoughts, Q reaches in to lift the object and for a moment they can’t see a thing, the mysterious item just small enough to fit within the palms of his hands. Then he sets the item atop the velvet black case and half the room gasps.

It’s not baked goods or cats, but as far as bribes go, this one is exquisite.

The Fabergé style egg is made of white and yellow gold and mother-of-pearl, and the shell appears to be formed in segments, closed like the petals of an unbloomed flower. Each segment contains a pattern resembling a feather, beautifully textured to appear almost organic. The egg shines under the warm amber light of Q’s workstation lamp, a perfect contrast to the black case it stands on.

No longer bothering to be subtle, the team watches as Q gently pinches the base and rotates the egg, the segments spreading open like unfurling wings. They don’t get to see the surprise that lies hidden inside – Q stares down at it for a long minute, his expression very, very still, before he seals the egg back up, the mechanism working smoothly in either direction. He draws a light finger over the surface of the egg, and then begins packing it back into its black case.

Ricco is already standing – it’s his turn on the rotation – because they all know how this goes. Every so often a package – a bribe, really, from various powerful individuals in the country or even from within the government itself – makes it through MI6 security to Q’s workstation. They never come with a request on just what favour they want Q to bestow upon them in exchange for the gift, but Q opens the packages, examines them thoroughly, and then he always passes them to a member of Q Branch to be disposed of. The same will happen now, although it’s quite a shame to destroy this particular bribe. The egg, anyone with eyes can see, is both a work of art and a wonderful feat of engineering.

But a bribe is a bribe, and Q might be impressed by them but he is also fond of reminding the team that he’s quite capable of building his own little mechanicals if he is inclined. So as precedence dictates, Ricco will dutifully take the gift over to Weapons and Engineering.

It just so happens they’re testing the new firearms system in their latest range of automobiles today. Perfect timing.

“That won’t be necessary,” Q says, sounding distracted, and the lab goes utterly silent around him for an instant.  

“Sir?” Ricco says, even as whispers break out, shocked.

“This one is truly a gift, not a bribe. Do you see any political figures or persons in power sending a bribe knotted with a mooring hitch?” Q ties the ivory ribbon around the case with a simple bow this time. He stands there, his hands resting lightly on the case for a long moment before he comes to a decision, pausing just long enough to tuck the white feather into a jar he uses as makeshift penholder before he reaches for his messenger bag, swinging it back over one shoulder. “As you were, Q Branch. I’ll drop this off in my office before I head over to Inventories.”

“But sir,” Ricco tries. “Do you even know who it’s from?” 

Q glances around the lab, blinking.

Then he smiles.

“Only one Double-O’s been assigned a mission to Russia recently,” he says, and walks out with the box held securely in his hands, not noticing the team’s slack-jawed expressions.

Ricco turns to stare at the rest of his colleagues – and they’re already on it, someone’s going to make the connection any moment now; Q Branch as a general rule isn’t privy to the Double-O assignments Q handles, but records exist for a reason, and so do surveillance cameras.

“007.” It’s Tami – she sits across from Ricco and he’s never seen that wide-eyed look of impending doom on her face before, not even during the most hair-raising emergencies. “Remember, we were discussing currencies, and Q mentioned the Russian ruble because he’d been preparing 007’s mission kit the day before—”

“007?” someone says.

“James _Bond?_ ” someone else says.

As Q Branch members start talking over each other, Ricco stares at Q’s workstation, at the empty square of space where the black case had so innocuously sat.

“Have you considered,” Ricco says, “what the Fabergé egg is supposed to be if it isn’t a bribe? I can’t begin to value the cost of it, but it must have been exorbitant. The workmanship alone…”

There is a moment of silence, loaded, and then pandemonium breaks out.

 

 

 _2._  

As one of the very few angels in the United Kingdom – especially a primal-type, Class A celestial being – and the only one in MI6’s employ, the Quartermaster is considered a national treasure, an asset and a boon to the government. 

Eve will calmly take down anyone who treats Q as if that is all he is.

It’s the reason why she takes the assignments, loathed though she is to call them that. M won't let Q travel without a protection detail, and Q won't openly admit so, but he's not particularly fond of the numerous and sundry field agents that M once tried to assign to him. Angelic nature and personal privacy aside, Q is an innovator and a hacker and both like to keep their secrets close to heart. Eve likes Q and enjoys his company, and so it isn't a hardship at all to get herself assigned as his bodyguard on the odd days his presence is officially requested outside of headquarters – between herself, Tanner and the Double-Os whenever one of them is in the country, they more or less have Q's schedule covered.

If they close one eye and squint, these trips almost seem like casual outings between friends. 

Q is currently hands deep in the guts of their assigned car's infotainment unit, a furrow of concentration between his brows. Eve spares a glance at his work; she drives because Q doesn't have a license and if he had his way he'd take the train everywhere. When they go on one of these trips he always asks her to take one of the generic MI6 automobiles, just so he has time to tinker with them.

Well, at least she doesn’t have to worry about electric shocks – Eve prefers this, Q with his miniature tool kit and his jacket and shirt sleeves rolled up, to the pleasant but utterly uninterpretable persona he takes on when he has to meet with non-MI6 governmental representatives.

She takes a corner smoothly – defensive driving, no abrupt accelerations or decelerations – and Q blithely rips out the touchscreen display from the dashboard, tangled wires and all. Eve’s hands remain steady on the steering wheel, but her sideways glance lingers this time.

“My apologies,” he says, a sheepish undertone to his voice, even though he’s already unscrewing components with quick twists of his pocket screwdriver.

“The meeting wasn’t that stressful, was it?” 

“It’s just the weather. There’s a huge storm coming in from the east – you’ll see evidence of it soon enough.”

Eve looks out at the cloudless blue sky and doesn’t doubt it; Q is a little more restless than usual, and he’s a better weather barometer than any of the country’s weather centres.

“I hope it blows over by dinnertime,” she murmurs under her breath, and it’s Q’s turn to shoot her a sideways look, although his is less questioning and more knowing.

“The storm will have peaked by then, but there will still be quite a fair bit of wind and rain throughout the night. Going out for dinner might be problematic.” Q turns his attention back to the touchscreen in his lap. “But it’ll be fair tomorrow morning, if you prefer a quiet evening in.”

Eve ponders on that second comment for a minute before she sighs. “James has been talking.”

“007 has been talking,” Q agrees.

“It was one time. He called me in the evening to look up some information for him and heard my boyfriend’s voice _one time_.”

“Well, I only found out about your relationship status because he called you through a secure connection routed through one of my prototype car’s systems—“ he reaches out and pats absentmindedly at the dashboard “—and then subsequently sunk the car in a river somewhere in Italy. After he got off the call with you, of course.”

“Oh.”

“Yes,” Q says wryly. “I think he was trying to distract me when he told me about your night time visitor.”

Sometimes Eve wonders how James is still alive. It’s a wonder Q hasn’t tried to sink _him_ in the Thames, for how much of Q’s equipment he’s wrecked.

“I hope he made it up to you.”

“You think he would?” comes the reply, as the first hint of clouds begins rolling in across the horizon.

“He leaves me handwritten thank you notes. And burner phones,” Eve says.

Q makes a quiet wordless noise in his throat that nevertheless manages to convey just how little he thinks of burner phones as an apology gift. “He can definitely do better than that.”

He likely doesn’t mean it that way, but that statement practically begs for a follow-up question. Normally, Eve wouldn’t pry. It’s none of her business what her colleagues do in their private lives – in fact, most MI6 personnel maintain a strict line between business and the personal, and Eve’s boyfriend still thinks that she’s a secretary for a wealthy businessman who constantly travels for work, which is about a quarter true. But she’s terribly fond of Q and James is a constant enigmatic headache that she still trusts her life and country to. The lines are blurred enough, she thinks, that she could ask and it wouldn’t be socially or professionally inappropriate.

“I heard he brought you something from Russia.”

It’s very quiet in the car – even MI6’s generic automobiles are top-notched, which means powerful upgrades and excellent soundproofing – and Eve slants Q another quick look, just in case she’s overstepped her boundaries. But the expression on Q’s face is contemplative, his hands hovering over the electrical components in his lap. 

“It was quite beautiful,” he says, before seemingly snapping out of it, darting a quick look at Eve before his eyes drop back to his work. “It was a Fabergé-style egg. 007 has good taste. If you consider the millions of pounds he has cost Q Branch, the Fabergé egg just barely scratches the surface of what I’m due. Fortunately, material costs come directly from the Single Intelligence Account, so for the cost of workmanship alone, I suppose it will do.” Q’s mouth twitches. “It’s much better than a bottle of champagne, let’s put it that way.”

“So it’s recompense for all the trouble he’s caused,” Eve says lightly, because she’s heard the rumours. In fact, as M’s secretary, it’s her duty to know _all_ the rumours, to be M’s eyes and ears within headquarters and to notice trends before they become a problem. Q Branch has been in a quiet uproar over the implications of the Fabergé egg; she’s caught more than a few of them trying to hack their way into some of the less classified Double-O files.  

“Perhaps,” Q says. “Not if it becomes a habit. My innovations and my equipment are not interchangeable with pretty trinkets, no matter how beautifully they are crafted.” His tone is stern, but there’s a little smile just barely curving his lips, fond and private.

 _Oh dear_ , Eve thinks, because she’s seen that look before – in her own mirror after Thomas has visited, when her smile doesn’t need to fully exist because her eyes are already shining with joy.

She keeps the thought to herself even as she makes a mental note to follow up on the Q Branch rumours with greater earnest – courtship gift is the general interpretation over there, accompanied by varying levels of disbelief and outrage because someone’s already put together a report of James’s many in-mission seductions, conquests and general flirtatious ways. Q Branch is loyal and appropriately overprotective of their quartermaster, and Eve isn’t sure whether she’ll help or hinder them. She needs more information, and Q appears happy enough for now.

So Eve won’t interfere, not yet.

“You’re right,” she says instead, tipping her head towards the windscreen, where grey clouds have taken over half the sky. “Looks like a storm.”

“You’ll get the alert on your phone soon,” Q tells her, and they drive on in a comfortable silence, Q continuing his tinkering with the infotainment unit in the growing gloom, navigating through touch, instinct and probably angelic senses. By the time he’s done and closing off the panel, they’ve hit the outskirts of London and Eve is driving almost entirely by the glow of the headlamps, the city thrown into false darkness by the oncoming storm.

They idle at a traffic light, and Q twirls the screwdriver between his fingers. Then, as if coming to a decision, he tucks the tool back into its kit and lifts a hand to adjust his glasses.

“Do you want to reach headquarters before the storm hits?” he asks, and it’s his handler’s voice, calm, steady, with just the slightest hint of amused omnipotence.

Eve turns to look at him – they’re forty-five minutes away from Vauxhall Cross, maybe half an hour if she drops the defensive driving, and the clouds look ready to break at any moment, lightning flashing in perfect, cragged arcs overhead – and then turns her attention fully to the road. She sets her hand lightly on the clutch.  

“Go,” Q says, a split second before the light changes green and Eve guns the throttle, the car leaping forward like a bullet.

Every once in a while, Q shows her a route into and around London that circumvents both major traffic and many of the Security Service’s surveillance cameras. They're fun in and of themselves – Eve loves driving, the one activity she allows herself to trust to instinct and reckless abandon when she's usually so precise in her dressing and her words and her marksmanship. The routes are challenging, with tight turns and checkmarks at unpredictable intervals to make sure she makes it across traffic lights at the right time. Q’s instructions are precise – directions, speed limits, oncoming obstacles – and Eve knows that he’s must be tapping into the networks with his powers, a direct interface into the city’s traffic and surveillance systems when anyone else would need a computer to map things out.

But if Q doesn't mind acting as her personal GPS, then Eve's not going to complain. It’s incredibly valuable training for her position as M’s personal secretary anyway, in the event she needs to evacuate M while throwing any tails off their trail – at least that’s what she tells herself when they roar into a side street several blocks away from Vauxhall Cross just twenty minutes later, the hood of the car completely dry and her grin in the rearview mirror a little too toothy to be called a smile.

What can Eve say? She works for MI6 for a reason.

Q blinks his eyes open – they’re glowing very faintly, visible only because of the dark – and smiles at her.

“I’ll send you a copy of the route directions,” he says without prompting, and this, this is why all of Q Branch is so devoted to him—

A rap against the tinted window on Q’s side has Eve’s gun up and aimed squarely at the shadowy figure standing beyond almost instantly, her other hand still wrapped around the steering wheel. Q recoils instinctively against the back of his seat, out of her line of fire, and after a moment, Eve holsters her gun and reaches for her docked phone to hit the seventh contact on speed dial.

“I’m going to shoot you properly one day,” she says flatly, “and then I’ll really have the mark for killing 007 in my file.”

“It’d be a worthy way to go,” James Bond says, and the soundproofing in the car is such that they only hear his voice through the phone’s speakers. “You’re getting predictable, Eve. I shouldn’t be able to trace you here.”

“This is one of the evacuation points for headquarters, there is always an MI6 getaway car stationed here,” Eve points out. “What are you doing outdoors, the Met has put out a severe thunderstorm warning.”

“Exactly,” he replies cryptically. “Unlock the doors, will you?” Then his tone drops, a verbal cue for how his attention has switched. “Q.”

“007,” Q says, neither facing the docked phone nor Bond’s silhouetted figure beside his door. “And here I wondered if you’ve forgotten about my presence in this vehicle.”

“That would be quite difficult. Would you like to come somewhere with me?”

Q blinks. “There’s a severe thunderstorm warning,” he repeats Eve’s earlier words, “and I can feel how volatile this one will be.”

James laughs – it comes through clearly over the line. “You hold dominion over lightning and electricity and have an affinity with all things electrical. This is your element.” And then he pulls on the door handle, which unlocks with a snap, and Eve startles because she definitely isn’t the one who disengaged the locks.

It’s obvious once James slides the door open just how imminent the oncoming storm is – even two seats in Eve can feel the buffet of moving currents, the rising wind a faint howl in the background. The air smells of ozone, heavy and all encompassing. The door light casts an amber glow over James’s facial features; Eve marvels at how put-together he still looks against the darkening horizon. There was a government gala, mandatory for M and all Double-Os currently in the city and a perfect explanation for the tuxedo, but not why he’s still in it two hours later.

James nods once at Eve, and then turns his attention to Q, his voice surprisingly candid, free of the usual seductive tones.

“Come watch the lightning storm with me.”

 _Oh, you bloody smooth operator_ , Eve thinks in the privacy of her mind, because of course James wouldn't plan a remotely conventional date, not for someone like Q. She knows his reputation well, the consummate lover – he plans things systematically, each intimate encounter a conquest to be savoured and then ruled over when he finally has the prize within his grasp.

He's also capable of startling moments of intuition. Q would be terribly bored by anything that doesn't challenge his mind or at the very least falls in with his known interests, but he also likes holding onto tradition. It's evident in the way he loves books in all forms, articles on his tablets and bulky textbooks and especially slim volumes of heavy paper and gorgeously rendered covers, and the way he prefers to code and program by hand when he could mobilize the entirety of Q Branch's communications lab with his powers alone.

So, a perfectly pressed tuxedo and a formal request for Q to accompany him, to appeal to the more down-to-earth side of Q, and a chaotic and volatile lightning storm, because – that perfectly describes the essence of the both the Quartermaster and James himself, doesn't it?

Evidently Q thinks so, because he releases his seatbelt, letting the strap pull back with a whirling hiss.

“Wait a minute,” Eve cuts in, swiftly scanning the area beyond their car. “This is a public street, I’m not dropping you out here when we’re just five minutes away from headquarters.”

“This is well within MI6’s boundaries, and you’ll be releasing me into the care of a Double-O,” Q says. “That should fulfil M’s terms regarding my protection detail, although I'll never understand why he thinks it's necessary to have me escorted all the way back to headquarters when I'll be walking home on my own later tonight.”

Eve can’t argue with that. She turns her gaze on James, her eyes narrowed.

“Storm-watching is a creative idea,” she tells him. “But you are quite human, no matter how invulnerable you Double-Os seem to think you are, and if you get struck by lightning you will die.”

James doesn’t take the bait, just watches her calmly, and once again it’s Q who speaks up. “He has me. I’ve invested a lot of time and effort in ensuring he returns from missions safely – he’ll be fine, here in London.”

It’s Eve’s call. James might be a Double-O and Q the leader of an entire division, but right now Eve is Q’s bodyguard, and she’s well within her rights to just shoot James and drive off if she judges that the situation requires it. Q waits, his eyes serious, playing with his hands restlessly – he’s always restless in stormy weather – and Eve doesn’t quite sigh, but she knows when she’s outmanoeuvred.

If Q is willing to act as her personal GPS out of friendship, it isn’t at all odd to think he’ll go a step further and bend his powers into keeping James safe in face of gale-force winds and lightning, out of whatever it is that’s brewing between them.

“I can’t actually stop either of you,” she admits, and lets her hands slide from the steering wheel.  

Q smiles at her, and it’s a sweet smile – sincere.

“Thank you for the escort back to headquarters, Moneypenny. I appreciate the company, as always.”

“My pleasure,” she tells him, and then James steps back, holding the door wide open, and Q ducks out, his jacket catching in the wind.

James gazes after him, and then he leans in over the door. “Have a good evening, Ms. Moneypenny,” he says, almost their usual casual flirtation; it teases a wry smile from Eve.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Mr. Bond,” she says, and he flicks her a quick salute before finally shutting the car door.

Eve doesn’t make the mistake of driving away first – occasionally even Double-Os need backup, if an attack happens right now – and she ends up watching them from within the car. They stand side by side, bodies angled towards each other but not at all touching. The wind snatches at Q’s longer hair; Q tips his head back to stare up at the darkened sky, but James, James doesn’t take his eyes off him.

They begin moving a moment later, and Eve sighs. “For goodness sake, keep him safe,” she murmurs, and it’s anyone’s guess who she’s referring to – James or Q.  

Q turns to look at her, far away enough that Eve can’t make out his expression; James glances back a moment later, tuned to Q’s movements. There’s a shadow behind Q’s back – his wings, Eve realizes, just the faintest ethereal outlines of them, manifesting in the charged air of the growing storm above their heads. Lightning flashes, following swiftly by the crack of thunder, loud enough to be startling even with the soundproofing, and then rain plummets down, stealing the two of them from sight.

Eve leans back against the leather seat, finally letting her spine go loose; the storm will shelter them now. She should return to headquarters – she’d been exempted from the gala for bodyguard duties, which means she needs to catch up with M’s agenda – and with Q off-duty, it would be the best time to talk with some of the Q Branch staff to get a proper feel of the situation.

But there’s something haunting about that image of James and Q standing together; the memory of them lingers in Eve’s mind. They seem such an unlikely pair, but Eve can see how they complement each other – knows from experience that James is one of the few people capable of breaking through Q’s cool, that Q in turn manages the rare and difficult task of keeping the Double-O teetered to some form of restraint and rationality.

She’s on both their sides. She wants them both to be happy, but while James might withdraw, go cold and emotionless if the relationship doesn’t succeed, the stakes are much higher on Q’s part if he gets his heart broken.

Eve bites her lower lip, and stares out into the howling rain.  

 

 

 _3._  

It would be a gross miscalculation to reduce anyone in MI6’s employ to simple generalities, but Bill knows that on a normal day he can classify Q’s moods into three broad categories: one – precise, self-controlled and professional, most evident when he’s dealing with troublesome agents and government officials he dislikes; two – playful and amused, particularly dangerous for his staff; and three – utterly neutral, mostly when he’s sunk so deeply in his work it takes his own alerts or M’s appearance for Q to resurface.

So when Q makes an inarticulate noise of ire and there are no emergencies, active missions or agents in their vicinity, Bill decides a break is in order.

“All right over there?” he calls over.

Q’s scowl is impressive indeed, but the fact that it’s there is reassuring. If he’d looked perfectly calm after that moment of irritation earlier, Bill would have already started hunting for the crisis.

“I’m debugging a program because _someone_ —” Q’s tone is severe, implying that he’s censoring out several choice swear words for that more innocuous term “—decided to play around with the coding. The additions aren’t enough to break the software; they just skew the results by a degree or two.”

“I thought you like debugging,” Bill comments. Because it’s just Q in the room, he doesn’t hesitate at all before unlocking his drawer, for the microbrew beer he keeps there for easy-going Friday afternoons or the most harrowing of missions.

He brings a thermos of hot water with him because Q steadfastly refuses to drink while at headquarters, preferring to stick with the comfort of tea. He tops off Q’s mug, and pops the top off his beer bottle.

“I do,” Q says, because he’s like that with programming the way the agents love overly complicated and blood-curdling missions – inexplicably fond of the very things that turn the common person off. “But the comments are aggravating.”

“Comments?”

“In German, I think. I translated the first few but they’re of little importance and hence are simply distracting. I’ve compiled them in a document for later.”

Q slides a tablet across the desk, and Bill sets the bottle down to catch it. The text is indeed in German and doesn’t appear to be encrypted or in code. They’re mostly phrases and comments like _this is more likely to be deployed at night, you should change it_ or _sixty seconds? Hardly enough time_.

Bill glances back at Q. “Seems like an agent’s giving you advice on mission parameters to fine-tune your software.”

“Are you sure? There are some paragraph-sized comments.”

Bill scrolls down. There’s one that catches his eye because it mentions M: _I don’t know why you always get caught off-guard if you can code something as elaborate as this. Shouldn’t your surveillance cameras be able to tell you when M’s about to ambush you?_

He glances at Q, his eyebrows raised.

“What?” Q pushes his keyboard away and automatically picks up his tea mug. “What does it say? Do I even want to know?” He pauses. “You understand German?” 

Bill smiles. “Well enough.” He decides to skip the one about M, and goes to the next paragraph sized comment. It looks like a list.

“‘I know you prefer scientific proof, calculated probabilities, logic and fact. So do I,’” Bill translates as he reads, an easy enough task. “‘A perfectly balanced gun in hand.’  Your commenter is definitely a field agent, Q. ‘An electrical pulse, strong enough to shock the heart into restarting without lasting damage. The mix of vodka, dry vermouth and ice, shaken not stirred—’”

Bill pauses, his eyes flicking back up to reread the sentence he has just translated, and then Q snatches the tablet right out of his hands.

Neither Q’s actions nor the message fazes Bill at all – if only Q knows just what Bill’s had to put up with, dealing with all the Double-Os when they first receive their designations, before time and M has had a chance to smooth out their rough edges. But Q’s already stuttering out an apology, clutching the tablet so tightly that his knuckles are white, and he’s flushed in that panicked way that makes him look feverish.

“Are you all right?” Bill asks. It’s probably the only question he can ask right now that doesn’t call attention to Q’s actions or expression or the fact that they’ve both just discovered that Bond has basically sent Q a love letter in the most maddening and convoluted way possible.

Because Bill’s memory is excellent and he’s had additional training in memory techniques, and so he recalls almost perfectly the rest of that comment, especially the very last part of it:

_I find all of these things pleasing, but they don't compare. You are steel and adrenaline and a logical fallacy that nevertheless rings true. You constantly throw me a degree off balance, tipping me out of equilibrium. You are the most remarkable mission of my life._

Bill has heard Bond sprout some thoroughly incredible lines while seducing a target, but it would be like him to compare a lover to a logical fallacy and a mission in the same breath.

Q clears his throat. “I’m fine,” he says, managing to sound almost calm.

“You shouldn’t let Bond rile you up like that,” Bill says, deciding that it’s more awkward not to acknowledge the elephant in the room.

“‘Rile,’” Q echoes. “Yes, I’m sure that’s the word 007 would use.” He stares at Bill for a moment, then turns back to his keyboard and monitor. “I think I’ll run a filter to remove all the German. I’m sure I can fix all the loopholes that causes.”

“He does make some good points,” Bill says lightly, picking up his beer bottle again. “Not the paragraph comments, but the other notations.”

Q throws him a look. “He can give them to me in person then, so I can tell him the ways he’s wrong.”

Bill laughs. “If you say so.”

He watches Q for several minutes, and when the quartermaster flips to a new window and begins typing, blocks of code just moving up the screen without pause, Bill pulls out his phone, hiding it discreetly behind his bottle. There are some people who are still leery of using their phones or other communication devices around Q once they find out about his nature; Bill doesn’t tell them that Q is far too polite and just too busy to bother listening in on normal conversations with either his angelic powers or his technology, because if they can’t judge characters accurately then they aren’t worthy of Q’s time.

_It might be more serious than we thought. Shall we meet for coffee?_

He sends the message to Moneypenny, slides his phone back in his pocket and the now empty beer bottle into the recycling bin, and goes back to his own workstation to continue his work.

 

 

 _4._  

It seems terribly unprofessional to admit so, but there are times where it's quite easy to forget that Q has angelic blood running through his veins.

He's brilliant and confident, but unlike the unnatural charisma that is so common of angelkind, their Quartermaster's actions seem inherently honest and down-to-earth. Underneath his professional fronts there's something quite human in the way Q alternately teases and commands the members of Q Branch, in the way he doesn't ever back down in face of an irate and unreasonable Double-O, not when it's their lives at stake. All of Q Branch would follow him into the depths of hell and beyond if he asked it of them – because he would ask, not simply command.

And then there is this – the sight of Q behind the sealed-off vault that normally remains unused and unoccupied at one side of the Q Branch observation lab, the thin pane of glass and Q's own will the only barrier between the Q Branch team and the maelstrom of energy the quartermaster has unleashed.

Q's eyes glow faintly, nearly washed out by the arcs of lightning within the stone and glass of the vault, unfocused as he stares out into the distance where no conventional surveillance system could ever reach. He's speaking – his voice muffled – and his arms are spread, palms down and fingers curled as if poised above invisible keyboards, mirroring the faint silhouette of his wings, only evident because the energy within the vault cannot pass through them, must bend and curve around them.

Every single monitor in the Q Branch observation lab is lit up and processing data at impossible speeds. The metallic tang of overheated electronics permeates the air; the only reason why they don't smell the ozone of Q's power is because of the glass barrier, created from a special formula that Q gave them himself. Despite that safeguard and the antistatic wrist strap they all snapped on the moment Q sealed himself within the vault, Corrine can still feel her hair stand up, strands clinging to her hands when she pulls her hair into a messy tail.

It goes on for long minutes. The Comms team can't do anything but wait in mute silence, following Q's progress as best as they can on the monitors while the storm rages on inside the vault and 0010 battles for his life, visible in fleeting glimpses when Q's power overrides the surveillance cameras, dreamlike flashes of the Double-O appearing in stark clarity before fading into impressions of shadow and movement.

In the end, it's incredibly touch and go. 0010 survives – barely – and half the screens flick and change course, Q racing through the logistics of procuring an extraction team, the necessary clearances ticking off, filed and processed in a blink of an eye. Corrine can hear Q now—"I need you to stay on the line, 0010. No, don't worry about the earpiece, I can hear you just fine"—the power within the stone and glass walls condensing to a distance rumble, more potential rather than kinetic energy. His voice is still crisp and clear, although there's a hint of frantic worry tinting it.

They have no indication of 0010’s status now that Q has scaled back his power, turning towards support and recovery, but as the screens shut off one by one, powering down, the Comms team stirs to life. They each have their designated tasks to complete whenever a mission turns around so badly it requires Q’s intervention – most of it has to do with checking the lab’s equipment and making sure no other Q Branch operations are compromised due to Q hijacking the entire network. As a team leader, Corrine is on standby for any other instructions Q might have for the specific occasion; she keeps one hand on her antistatic band so she can remove it the instance Q tells them that it’s safe to do so.

The last screen shuts off and Q blinks, the focus back in his eyes. The outline of his wings beat once, dispelling the remaining energy, and disappear out of sight. And then like a puppet with cut strings, Q collapses to the ground.

There’s a split second of complete silence and then about half the team cries out, wordless gasps and worried “sir!”s. Corrine snaps off her antistatic band and dashes for the vault, Liam catching up with her halfway. They skid to a halt at the glass entrance, and Corrine stares at the lock, thrown, because she and Liam are team leaders but only a senior staff member has the credentials to unlock it.

“Let me through,” Omen says behind them, and Corrine breathes out a sigh of relief. The rest of the team are gathering behind Omen and everything’s going to be fine; Omen has the codes to the lock, and—

 _Don't_ — Q projects directly into their minds, his mental voice sounding apologetic for the intrusion, and very, very tired — _unseal the doors_.

They all freeze, even Omen, who has already lifted his hand towards the locking mechanism. Liam has a mutinous look on his face like he has half a mind to crack the door open on the spot, and Corrine agrees. Q's body is still, too still. Corrine’s not entirely sure that he's still breathing.

"Sir," Omen says calmly. "We can help you now that the emergency is over."

_No. It's not safe in here, not yet. I'll be fine. Please see to the electronics._

The order is accompanied with the impression of overheating computer components and a faint worry that they would be damaged beyond repair. Omen nods at the junior Comms staff, and they immediately peel off to check on all the workstations, leaving just the three team leads clustered by the vault, peering anxiously through the glass.

"Are you sure you're all right, sir?" Corrine says, because Q’s never collapsed after a session in the vault before.  

Q's acknowledgment is now just a flicker, like a particularly cold wind brushing against the very edges of their minds.

“What should we do?” Liam mouths at Corrine, and she turns her own helpless stare on Omen. Liam’s the newest team leader to join the Comms team, but it’s not like Corrine has had any more experience with this. Q uses his powers on and off, mostly on extremely time sensitive missions or to control multiple networks at once, but he generally keeps the radius of his power restricted to London, relying on technology to keep in contact with the agents in question.  

0010 is in the Middle East, maybe even in Africa. They all saw that much from the monitors earlier, and Q had been speaking to him even though the Double-O had broken his earpiece early on in the fight.

Omen jerks his head pointedly to one side and heads back to the lab centre, stopping just before the row of workstations. Corrine shoots Q one last look before heeding the silent directive; she and Liam join Omen, huddling in to keep their conversation a little more private.

“Are we really just going to leave him on the floor like that?” Liam says out loud this time, now that they’re out of Q’s earshot.

“He told us not to enter,” Corrine points out. “We could try contacting Medical.”

“I’ve called the Chief of Staff and Riley, as per procedure,” Omen says. “But they’re in the middle of an undisclosed operation, so—”

The observation lab doors swish open and 007 strides right in.

His appearance is so unexpected that he gets halfway across the lab before any of them can react, junior Comms members scattering before him.

“007,” Omen manages to get out as 007 comes to a stop before them.

“Q Branch,” 007 returns. His eyes are fixed on a point behind them, and Corrine realizes with a start that he only stopped to talk to them because they’re blocking the way to the vault.

"The Quartermaster doesn't want anyone entering the vault," Omen says.

007’s expression doesn’t even flicker. “Sadly, we don’t always get what we want.”

He steps around them like a liquid shadow, so quickly that Corrine has to whirl around just to keep him in sight. The vault beyond is like a giant glass case, brightly lit by spotlights, and Q is a crumbled figure in the middle of it like a morbid performance art display.

The sight makes her heart jolt up into her throat, and Corrine sprints after 007, ducking her head as she gets around him just in case he lashes out. She plants herself squarely in front of the vault’s entrance, using her entire body to shield the unlocking mechanism, and tips her chin up to stare 007 down. "Seriously. _No_."

"Q would be quite upset if I injured any of you," 007 says conversationally, but there's a gleam in his eyes that is predatorily dangerous, "and I respect his wishes, but one way or another I am going to him."

Corrine grits her teeth. As much as she's utterly unafraid to stand up to a Double-O, 007 most definitely outranks her – outranks any of them, in fact. And Q might be quite indulgent of the Comms team's mad-hatter ways, but the one thing he doesn't accept is insubordination of a direct order.

They're all waiting for Q to give an indication either way, but Corrine's mind stays peacefully quiet, and from the looks on the others’ faces, they're not getting anything from Q either. Liam has one hand behind his back – Corrine hopes he’s not stupid enough to tase a Double-O – and Omen gives a minute shake of his head.

Corrine keeps her head tipped up so 007 knows she’s not giving in gracefully, and steps out of the way.

To his credit, he doesn’t gloat or smirk at her, simply looks past her at the lock before he steps forward and punches in a long sequence of numbers.

There’s the distinct thud of the lock disabling.

007 pushes the glass door aside. He makes an odd circuit around Q before crouching, his coat falling around his form like the dark spread of wings. He’s gentle enough when he turns Q, laying him out flat against the floor. He takes something small from his coat pocket and curls Q's fingers around the object with his own. As the moments tick by, Corrine glances at Omen and Liam, curious despite herself, and sees her curiosity mirrored on their faces. 007 doesn't move, simply cradles Q's hands in the absolutely silence, so when Q gasps in a breath, Corrine can hear it clearly from where she's standing.

"007," Q says, and his eyes are barely open, slits of green underneath the sweep of his eyelashes.

“Q,” 007 says, and there’s a quiet little note beneath the steadiness of his voice that might be concern. “Overworking yourself as always.”

Q doesn’t respond, but his head turns in the Double-O’s direction, and 007 frees one hand from Q’s grasp to brush his fingers lightly through Q’s hair. When 007 speaks again, his voice is so quiet that Corrine finds herself taking an unconscious step forward, so to better hear.

“Are you all right?” he says, and Q must do something to indicate his response, because he continues with, “The Logistics Branch received your instructions. And your Communications team is fine. It smells like a metalworks plant out there, but no one was panicking unduly.”

Q murmurs something at him, but even from where Corrine is standing she can see that he’s starting to rally, his gaze fixed on 007. His fingers flex, and for a moment Corrine catches a glimpse of something crystalline shining in the light before Q’s hand comes back more firmly around it.

“You should have called one of us,” 007 is saying when she tunes back in to their voices, and he’s stroking Q’s hair now, thumb brushing across Q’s temple with each caress. It’s a surprisingly tender gesture, and 007 continues the motion all through the quiet conversation. Q tries, at one point, to sit up, and 007’s clearly prepared – his hand catches the back of Q’s head before it can thud painfully back against the floor. 007 doesn’t berate him or make a pointed remark, just holds Q through a moment during which the quartermaster is clearly frustrated with his own state of health, if the way his fingers clench and unclench around the mysterious object is any indication.

Somehow, Corrine always thought that 007 would have a smart remark for any situation under the sun.

Just when she thinks that maybe, just maybe she can feel her heart softening a little, 007 sets Q carefully back against the floor, stands, and then _walks back out of the vault_.

She's so speechless that Liam gets a jump on her, cutting in with, "Where are you going?" the moment 007 gets through the glass door.

007 eyes him coolly. "To do my job."

Corrine shakes her head as if the action will clear the disbelief clouding her thoughts. "You're leaving him right now?"

"I'm sure all of you witnessed several men stabbing 0010 in the gut and how he was nearly buried under a collapsing building," 007 says in the same blithe tone. "The extraction team will pick him up, but the mission needs to be completed. Q extracted the relevant information from 0010 and his phone records before disconnecting his powers. He has transferred the information to my phone.”

“Is that what you came here for?” Corrine says, and her voice sounds shrill in her own ears. “For the records?”

007’s eyes are striking, icy-blue and just as cold, and right now they’re so perfectly emotionless that Corrine shivers. “We can’t do anything for Q at this time. His powers are unstable after a display like that, and he won’t let you remove him from that glass vault of his. He’ll recover in his own time. So yes, I came for the records.”

Liam actually takes two steps forward before Omen very quickly steps between him and 007. Corrine isn’t sure whose side she’s on – on one hand, Omen’s rescued Liam from a world of trouble; on the other, she wishes she has a taser of her own right now.

007 watches the three of them appraisingly, probably noting all their reactions and filing them away. “You should trust your quartermaster. He gave me 0010’s information for a reason.”

“That’s the point. He trusts you,” Corrine grinds out. She doesn’t know what else to do, so she settles for a verbal threat. “If you break his heart, we’ll break you.” It’ll be too late, far too late, but it’s the least they can do.

He meets her eyes squarely. “Duly noted, Ms. Leith.”

She wonders, fleetingly, how he knows her name when she doesn’t wear a name tag and no one keeps a nameplate at their workstations. But then he turns away, and Corrine feels so helplessly _angry_ that her hands are shaking.

"What did you give Q earlier, in the vault?" Omen asks suddenly, and Corrine startles – she hadn’t expected Omen to say anything at all.

That question, strangely enough, makes 007 pause.  

"Amethyst," 007 finally says. "They help draw in energy to cleanse and protect an angel's power. Q will recover well enough, but—” The pause is deliberate, the suspense before the knife strikes; Corrine is slightly awed that Omen is able to hold 007’s considering stare without flinching. “You should read up on crystals and their properties.”

And before any of them can comment, he strides out of the observation lab.

Corrine lets out a breath, and glances at the other two for support. She feels restless, all the pent-up adrenaline singing in her veins, and she has a sudden crazy urge to go punch something or maybe run into the vault to check on Q – only the memory of Q’s order, delivered mentally, stops her.

Once again, Liam asks the question that’s on Corrine’s mind. “What do we do now?”

They all look towards Q. His eyes are closed now, his hands folded over his chest like he’s simply decided to take a strange nap in the middle of the day.

Omen sighs, and snags an office chair, dragging it along and arranging it by the glass vault. He sits down, and sets his phone face down on his knee. “We trust Q. And we wait.”

Corrine looks at Liam. He stares back at her. As one, they both head silently to their workstations to grab their chairs. Corrine takes her tablet with her, and Liam snags the comms devices he’d been calibrating.

They have work to do, and it’s even more important for them to continue on, now that their quartermaster is out for the count.

Still, Corrine looks up several articles on crystals and stones first, and leaves them waiting in another window before she feels settled enough to concentrate on her work.

 

 

 _5._  

“You are a fool,” 004 says.

“Spare me the commentary,” 007 retorts. His voice is slurred and his eyes, although fixed with uncanny accuracy on her own, are just slightly out of focus.

She doesn’t have to read his chart; like any agent with extended service in the field, 004 knows how to identify injuries. Of the lot, the most serious are the concussion and the head wound to go with it, still bleeding sluggishly if the stained bandages are any indication, three cracked – fortunately not broken – ribs, and a stab wound that is deep but clean. The blood loss and concussion combined is what knocked 007 out long enough for Medical to get their hands on him – otherwise, any of the injuries alone wouldn’t be enough to stop a Double-O.  

It’s strictly no weapons within the confines of Medical, tucked as safely as it is in the heart of headquarters, so 004 draws out two throwing knives from her belt. One goes tip first into the arm of the visitor’s chair for easy access, and the other she sets just out of 007’s current reach, keeping her fingertips on the handle.

“If you stop terrorizing the medics, you can borrow one of my knives.”

“I can still kill you like this,” he says, and 004 laughs. It’s fortunate the medics are giving 007’s room a wide berth – only the senior medical physicians have the clearance to work with Double-Os and hence have built up immunity to the frivolous way they approach death. 004 doesn’t really want to traumatize the other staff. She might not like Medical, but she does appreciate the work they do.

“I’m sure you can,” 004 says. “But I’m faster than you and I’m much, much better with knives. That’s when we’re both at a hundred percent.”

He simply stares at her, his silence an indication of how out of it he must truly feel. But he curls his fingers in a come-hither gesture, and she sets the knife in his hand. He flips it around, tucks the blade safely along the length of his wrist and forearm.

Her phone chirrups then and 004 glances at the screen. It’s a token gesture; she knows who it’s from.

“Stay put, will you?” she says. “I’ll hate to have to hunt you down if you decide to check yourself out of Medical.”

007’s mouth twitches, not quite able to suppress the wry grin. “I have my orders.”

004 tilts her head to one side. “Who from?”

He doesn’t answer, and she doesn’t have time to pry it out of him. She slides gracefully to her feet, flicking up the dagger on the armchair as she goes, and slips out of the room, shutting the door carefully behind her. It’s probably best that she meets with her – and 007’s – visitors first.

She hears them before they spot her, the rhythmic, comforting cadence of Bill’s voice, although at their current distance the words he speaks are indistinct. Q is a slight, slender presence at his side, and 004 catalogues his ramrod posture and the way his shoulders are pulled back – as if accommodating invisible wings that are flared out, tense.

Then she steps forward to catch their attention because the sooner they get this over with, the better it will be for everyone involved.

“Quartermaster,” she says, and his head snaps immediately in her direction. “Bill. He’s through here.”

“004,” Q says, adjusting his glasses – a nervous habit. “I thought you were off-duty.”

“I am.” She smiles, flicks a glance at Bill, and then focuses her attention back on Q. “I was in one of the training rooms when 007 got back in. Medical isn’t a particularly pleasant place for most of us, so I offered to sit in and keep him company.”

For 007, it’s likely the inactivity and the fact that it’s forced upon him – none of the Double-Os do well with being controlled, especially when it’s accompanied by drugs and other restraints, for their own health though they may be. For 004, it’s the sterility of the environment and the unavoidable scent of antiseptic when it’s the only thing she can smell. They will all stay put if ordered to, but they would really rather not.

“It’s a good thing you’re around,” Bill says, “You don’t have a problem remaining at Medical when you’re injured.”

004 just shakes her head, amused; she stays put for him, but not likely for anyone else.

Q is staring at the closed door. “How is he?”

004 considers the question. “Irritable,” she finally settles on. “His injuries aren’t too serious by Double-O standards, but you might have to be patient – he has quite a bad concussion.”

She opens the door softly enough that it should escape 007’s attention for a few seconds, and the moment Q gets a clear enough view his expression turns stricken, eyes wide, his entire body going so tense that 004 feels her instincts flare up, compelling her to clear the room even though she knows it’s just 007 in there.

It’s quick, lightning fast like his element, and then Q’s face goes neutral, his shoulders arching forward just slightly. 004 wonders if he’s folded his wings against his spine or if he’s tucked them against his side, an angel’s version of wrapping his arms protectively around himself.  

“Head wounds always look worse than they really are,” she says softly.

Q’s eyes dart towards her, his gaze full of wordless emotion. His nod however, both in acknowledgment and in gratitude, is every inch the Quartermaster, and he stalks into the room without a further glance back. “What in the world have you done to yourself this time, 007,” he says, and his voice is steady, not betraying a single hint of his feelings.

Neither 004 nor Bill follow him in, although 004 keeps the door open long enough to determine that 007 is alert enough to respond to Q and that he has wisely hidden the knife she had given him. Then she shuts the door almost all the way, leaving just the barest inch of a gap, and lets out a careful breath.

“All right, Scarlet?” Bill asks her, and just like that, she’s Scarlet once more. It doesn’t matter what disguise she’s wearing or whether she’s in mission mode; Bill only ever calls her by her name when they’re in the clear and the situation is handled, and so she always comes back when called.

Sometimes, that’s just the distinction she needs.

She gives him a small smile, and then nods towards the door. “What’s this I hear about 007 courting the Quartermaster?”

Bill sighs. “It’s true. Most of Q Branch has been trying to interfere for weeks, but Q seems amenable and you know how 007 is. There isn’t much any of us can do.”

“What, they’re afraid 007 will break our quartermaster’s heart?” Scarlet laughs, but quietly. “You of all people should know that James doesn’t play, not when it comes to an actual relationship. And he doesn’t play when it involves anyone tied to his duty. If he’s pursuing Q, it must be in earnest.”

Bill absorbs that for a few seconds. “So you think they’ll be fine?”

“Not at all.” She meets his eyes squarely, and Bill Tanner is a good man, too good for the likes of MI6, she believes sometimes; there’s already a look of concern on his face, and she hasn’t even told him the reasons why. “The stories are true. Angels can die of a broken heart. In fact, it’s one of the guaranteed ways of killing them. I met one during a mission, just fading away, a pale lingering ghost. I heard he died, two days after I left.”

Her nails are bare, her fingers unadorned when she’s off-duty and back in headquarters – neutral, completely herself – but Scarlet remembers the exact shade of the polish she had painted her nails that day, the single ruby ring she wore on her right ring finger and the way the angel had stared at it, wistful. That had been the extent of the emotion he had been able to bring to bear; he was just a former shade of himself at that point. She’d held his hand, terribly cold and thin, in hers because he’d asked. Her hair, worn red like her name during that disguise, had reminded him of his beloved, buried just twenty days prior. 

She’d wondered, for just a moment, why no one would put the man out of his misery, but that’s the answer – he was not just a man but an angel, and even half gone he was otherworldly enough to survive almost anything she could do to him.

“I know most of MI6 worries that 007 will end this relationship the way he does his myriad other liaisons, but you and I both saw the look on Q’s face just now. If this goes on any further and 007 dies on a mission, there’s a very good chance that we’ll lose Q as well.” Scarlet’s sigh is a barely audible exhalation. “There is more than one way to break a heart.”

As chief of staff, Bill deals with crises great and small on a daily basis, across the entirety of MI6 and beyond it; the only thing that betrays his worry now are his eyes. Bill takes all of MI6 under his care, but amongst them he still has his particular favourites. Scarlet knows she’s one. Q, by virtue of friendship and years of working together, is another.

“I’ll discuss this with M,” he says. It’s an action of the last resort, but Scarlet nods in agreement. She doesn’t tell Bill that it might be too late, that Q’s earlier distress indicates a clear attachment on his part, but the look he’d shot her just afterwards, visceral and unfathomable, speaks of love, through and through.

How do they protect someone from themselves, when their heart has already decided who they want?

 

 

 _6._  

It is by sheer chance alone that Eve actually catches James at his flat, for all that it is just past the lunch hour in the middle of a work week. He catalogues her attire in one swift glance – silk collared blouse, pencil skirt, decently high heels and her normal trench coat over it all, unarmed; she must have come straight from the office, rather than making a detour after accompanying M on one of his numerous outings.

He lets her in, noting the tense line of her back, although the way Eve frowns at his sitting room has nothing to do with her errand – it’s a familiar expression, as is the conversation that follows.

“This place never changes no matter how many times I visit,” she says, sweeping her gaze through the space. It’s not quite true – there are miniscule alterations here and there, but James knows what she means. “It always looks like you’ve just moved in.”

James lifts his mug, for once filled with coffee instead of alcohol, and wonders if she’ll catch the difference. “I’m often out in the field, sometimes for weeks at a time, so there’s certainly an element of ‘moving back in’ every time I return to London.”

Her eyes home in on the coffee mug, and she tips her head to the side, considering him. “Are you all right?”

“I’m quite well,” James says truthfully – barely two weeks into his recovery and his ribs are almost healed, the stab wound entirely gone. If this keeps up, Medical might have kittens over how quickly he’s healing rather than for the injuries he brings back, which would make for a refreshing change. “What can I do for you, Eve?”

Eve never pulls her punches with him – she meets his eyes and says, “HR is in the process of issuing reassignment papers for you.”

James turns the thought around in his head and sips at his coffee. He hasn’t even added any shots to it, although he’s starting to feel that that might be a mistake. “That’s interesting.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “Your file hasn’t been routed through me, James. All Double-O files go through me. Do I have to spell it out for you?”

“So M has decided to remove me from the board.” James drains the rest of his mug, and wanders off in the direction of the kitchen. He hardly spends any time there when he's alone; he might as well do something with it when he has a visitor. He fills a travel mug with coffee, adds some milk – he hopes Eve appreciates the fresh milk, since he only ever drinks his coffee black – and hands it off to her.

Eve takes the mug automatically, and her frown is a subtle thing, just the slightest shift in her expression.

“Are you worried?” James’s mouth ticks up in a half-smile. “Review the past year and a half and tell me when M has ever succeeded in making me do anything I didn’t want to.”

It surprises a laugh out of Eve. “Fair enough. Look, I’m toeing the line by telling you this. I think they’re aiming to complete all the paperwork by the time you return from your leave. And it’s all on paper, of course – nothing electronic.” She pauses, and then pointedly adds, “Please don’t do anything reckless.”

His smile is flirtatious when he says, “Calculated risks are all part of the game,” but his gaze is completely serious when he meets Eve’s eyes and gives her a nod. He won’t ask her for further details; James constantly pushes at the boundaries that M sets but he doesn’t expect Eve to follow in his footsteps nor risk her career for him, not for something like this. She’s given him a head start – that’s enough.

He watches her from the window when she leaves, her trench coat flaring out with each stride, clutching the travel mug in one hand. She’s a phenomenal ally; James hopes he’ll never have to go up against her, not least because her sniper shots are quite deadly. He waits until she turns around a corner, and then he picks up his phone to dial a number he never thought he would ever make a call to outside of a mission.

“007.” Riley’s voice is mild. “Let me preface the conversation with this – you’re on mandatory medical leave.”

“And I’m currently standing in my sitting room, recuperating. I could sit down.”

There’s a quiet exhalation over the line. “Why have you called me?”

“Normally I find it both amusing and challenging to circumvent all the creative and deadly obstructions the Q Branch staff has put in place to keep me out of Q Branch,” James says, “but I need to discuss something with Q later this afternoon, and I’d like to do it without much interference.”

“Why not call Q directly?”

“I have to do some investigative work first, and I rather not worry him too soon.”

“And you can’t wait until later—” there’s a slightest emphasis on the word, and it makes James smile “—to have this discussion.”

“Well, I plan to break into the Accounts and Human Resources floor to access my own classified files to see where I’ve been reassigned to, now that M has decided to move me out of MI6. Q would likely appreciate the information in a timely manner.”

There’s a beat of a pause. “I really wish you hadn’t told me that,” Riley says. “You’re asking for a favour.”

Out of all of Q Branch, only Q’s second-in-command has yet to make a move against James. James approves of this for two reasons. One, it shows that at least one person in Q Branch has their head on straight and trusts Q to know his own mind. Two, Riley’s policy of non-interference is much more effective than anything the Q Branch staff has levelled at James so far. Like a loaded gun, the threat in Riley’s silence is implicit – he could act at any point, but he has simply chosen not to.

James respects anyone who knows how to hide the cards in their hand for additional leverage.

“Yes, I am.”

The line is quiet. James gives Riley space to consider the request, and goes to collect his jacket. All of MI6 is so used to seeing Double-Os in suits that he’s guaranteed to get through several floors simply by dressing down – Scarlet doesn’t even need to don one of her disguises; when she’s in an MI6 training sweatshirt she’s practically invisible.

He’s shrugging on the jacket with his phone pressed to his ear with his shoulder – this is one instance where one of Q’s comms devices would be quite useful, but Q had collected all his equipment after Medical slapped a leave order on James’s file – when Riley finally speaks. “You’re going to make a move whether or not I agree to help you.”

“Yes,” James says. He keeps his voice neutral so it doesn’t come off as an implicit threat of his own, but it’s undeniable. James has never been the type to sit passively by, and Q’s teams are very good at what they do. James tries to keep the chaos to a minimum, but if he needs to get into Q Branch when he’s in a hurry – well, the Double-Os have their reputations for a reason.

“It seems it’s in my best interest to agree.” There’s a pause, and then Riley chuckles. “I’ll enjoy having a Double-O in my debt. I’ll rein the teams in. Q will be at the main observation lab this afternoon.”

“I know.”

“Yes, you’d know, wouldn’t you? Do try to stay out of trouble, 007.”

Riley hangs up on him first, and James smiles as he puts his phone away. He’s been with MI6 for a long time; both Eve and Riley should know better than expect anything but trouble from him. 

\---

True to his word, Riley must have corralled most of Q Branch – for the first time in weeks, James walks into Q Branch territory without having to punch in Q’s personal code to get through the checkpoints or dodge all sorts of traps that the team has “accidentally” left in place. The main observation lab itself contains only a scant handful of personnel, and with Q present none of them dare to do anything more than level pointed stares in his direction. James does his very best not to smirk at them – Q has given him several lectures on provoking the team – and goes right up to Q’s workstation, where Q is half hidden under the benchtop, fixing cables or installing some new system, James isn’t quite sure.

He rustles the papers in his hand and then sets the stack on Q’s keyboard before leaning back against the workstation.

“You are on three weeks of mandatory medical leave and this is only the second week.” It’s impossible to miss the flat note in Q’s voice, muffled though it is, as if Q isn’t already aware that James has been at headquarters for the past three hours. “What are you doing here, 007.”

James picks up a pen – quite possibly a weapon, if the hefty weight is any indication – from Q’s jar-turned-makeshift penholder, and smiles at the white feather nestled amidst the other tools. “I thought you might like to know that I’ve received official reassignment papers permanently transferring me to the British Embassy in Washington D.C.”

Q emerges from under his workstation so quickly that James wouldn’t be surprised to hear that he’d teleported. Teleportation is not an actual angelic skill, however – angels are still governed by the laws of physics; they just have a tendency to bend them and outright manipulate them – Q is simply lithe and very graceful when he puts his mind to it, and he plucks the pen smoothly out of James’s hand even as he considers the papers James had left on the keyboard.

After a moment, Q tips his head up and gives James a look, narrow-eyed and cross. “Only you, 007, would manage to get yourself out of the Double-O program without actually being retired.”

There’s only one way for a Double-O to leave the ranks, after all; so far no one has actually lived long enough to reach proper retirement age to see if an alternative is possible.

“I am ever an exception to the rule,” James says. And because he’s never censored himself in front of Q, he points out, “I thought you would be pleased that my death isn’t involved.”

The workstation’s primary unit turns itself on, codes scrolling up the screen as Q folds the reassignment papers neatly in half, his fingers flattening the pages with a single sharp motion. He doesn’t break eye contact – doesn’t need to, the search an almost negligent use of Q’s full power – and the moment the code stops, Q turns neatly on his heels and heads for the lab entrance. “Let’s go.”

James spares a moment to sweep the main observation lab before he trails languidly after Q, careful to keep at a safe distance, restricting his mirth to a half-smile. He has a feeling the few Q Branch staff present have already alerted the rest of the team regarding his reassignment, which means there will be eyes – literal and technological – on them no matter where they’re going.

He isn’t at all surprised when Q walks straight into MI6’s strategy centre, where M is currently holding court with Eve and Tanner and a half dozen section leads from various divisions – mostly Intelligence, although James recognizes a few faces from Security. Eve spots them first, her eyes locking with James’s, and for a moment she looks like she’s about to make good on her threat to shoot him before her gaze flicks to Q and surprise flashes through her face. James wonders what she’s seen in Q’s expression.

“Why have you transferred 007 away from the Secret Service?” Q says without bothering to acknowledge M or anyone else in the room, clearly throwing himself straight into the offensive in hopes of forestalling the nervous tendencies he invariably picks up in M’s presence.

The room goes pin-drop silent. M turns, his eyes narrowed, and James positions himself at Q’s side instead of remaining a step behind and to the side as he usually would when Q is handling a situation. 

“I believe the Double-O program is entirely out of your purview, Quartermaster,” M says, his voice calm and smooth; like good strong alcohol, the unsuspecting won’t know what hits them until their throat is already burning and their eyes watering.

Q takes a deep breath. “This will be the first and only time I speak to you solely in my capacity as a Class A celestial, then. You’ve transferred Bond away from the United Kingdom because of his association with me.”

M’s voice drops. “He poses a threat to one of MI6’s greatest assets. And since he’s still a valuable agent in his own right, I’ve chosen to utilize his expertise elsewhere rather than to get rid of the problem all together.” M turns his head just the barest degree to the side to include James in the conversation. “You’ve worked as an advisor and ops specialist at various embassies before, so I already know you’re a good fit.”

“I’m flattered, sir,” James says.

Q’s shoulders flex like he wants to plant his elbow in James’s side. “Bond poses a threat to my equipment and Q Branch’s quarterly budget. He doesn’t pose a threat to me. Why does everyone seem to think that he’ll break my heart?”

“007’s reputation precedes him. He never did know when to leave things alone, and I prefer to err on the side of caution. Are you going to tell me that the stories are false, then?”

There’s a poignant pause, during which James casually eyes all the section leads in the room – he isn’t worried about Eve or Tanner – in case he needs to run interference in the future. 

“No,” Q finally says. “It’s true, angels do die of broken hearts. I doubt I would be an exception. But you haven’t taken all factors into consideration.” He holds up the stack of reassignment papers, still clutched in one hand. “If you try to forcibly separate us by transferring Bond out of my territory, I will likely end up broken-hearted all the same.”

It should sound like a ridiculous statement – that Q might pine himself into an early death –  especially when uttered in this location and with this audience, but Q’s voice is matter-of-fact and he doesn’t back down one bit in face of M’s narrow-eyed stare. James stays where he is; he’s a trained agent who has withstood torture and interrogations – he can resist the urge to brush a hand against Q, an intrinsic need for physical touch to confirm that he’s alive and present.

“You’ve become very devoted very quickly,” M says, his voice deceptively light.

Q’s smile is wry. “I get quite attached to the agents under my care – you know this. Do you think I would react any less when it comes to my chosen partner?” 

“Is he officially your chosen, then?”

A touch brushes against James’s hand – echoing his earlier thought – before something falls across his shoulders, weighty without being heavy. The lighting overhead flickers out, leaving the room bathed solely in the heavy wash of light from a standing lamp installed in the centre of the room, tinted by the eerie blue glow of the observation screens. M’s eyes flick up and over them and his gaze is placid, his expression mild as ever, but his sigh is entirely resigned.

James casts a look behind him, unconcerned. Because no one else can see Q’s wings when they aren’t charged up but under certain light they cast perfectly formed shadows, and now everyone can see what James has been enjoying over the past several weeks.

Q’s wings, half-spread, not quite a full threat display yet, his left wing hooked quite possessively over James’s shoulders, enveloping him neatly beneath a blanket of feathers.  

James doesn’t bother hiding the slight smirk spreading over his lips even as he meets each and every single section leader’s eyes squarely, before turning his attention to more worthwhile pursuits.

Just because James is capable of keeping his hands to himself while they are at headquarters doesn’t mean he wants to. Now that Q has made the first move, James strokes a hand down the leading edge of the pinion, digging his fingers into the long flight feathers before he softens his touch, his fingertips caressing the sleek plumage and occasionally easing a ruffled feather back into place. To everyone else, it must look like he’s sweeping his hand through the air, but to James, Q’s wings are ivory-hued like a snowy owl’s plumage set against the winter sky, perfectly proportioned and quite beautiful.

Q continues staring at M but his wing twitches, as if pressing into James’s touch, and James loves the picture they must make, Double-O and Quartermaster standing shoulder-to-shoulder, presenting a seamless and united front, while behind them their shadows cast another version of the truth – the angel and his chosen.

 _You’re thinking very loudly_.

Q’s mental voice is exasperated, but when James flicks a glance in his direction he can see the faint blush, only noticeable from this angle, a delicate spread of pink from Q’s ears trailing down his neck, almost hidden by unruly curls.

James’s smile widens. _I meant for you to overhear_.

Q projects the equivalent of a frown at him, but his wing flexes, threatening to pull James against Q’s side before Q seems to remember himself. _Please behave_ , Q says, before he pulls his mental presence back.

“I suppose I don’t need an answer to my question, the way the two of you are acting,” M says, sounding dangerously calm.

Q’s wings rustle as if he’d been caught off guard by M’s statement, but although it takes him a moment to catch his bearings, his words come out firm. “Yes, he is. And I’m very grateful for everyone’s concern, but I do know my own mind and heart. I assure you, I’m quite happy with the current state of affairs.”

M is too dignified to show any weakness, but there’s a pinched look on his face that suggests he’s feeling the onset of a headache. “I presume you’d want Bond to be stationed in London.”

“You’re not going to pull 007 from the field or the Double-O program in a misguided attempt to keep him – and hence me – safe, either.”

Behind M, Tanner starts. James would make a mental note to investigate why, except he’s a little startled himself. Some of that surprise must translate through his body language, because Q actually turns to look at him.

 _Your independence is as important to me as my own_ , Q says fiercely. _You’d go stir crazy if M tried to restrict you to headquarters. I won’t have you caged for my sake._

In any other situation, James would balk at the thought of having his life and his actions dictated by anyone else, even someone as close to him as a lover. But this has always been the foundation of his relationship with Q, both professionally and romantically. James trusts a small handful of people – the other Double-Os, Eve, Tanner, some of his outside contacts – but there is just one person he has faith in.

There is no one else whose hands James is willing to put his entire life into.

He gazes back at Q, silent, his hand still now, not even bothering to think back a response, and the moment stretches out until one of the Intelligence officers clears their throat. When James finally shifts his attention back to the rest of the room, Tanner has a cautious smile on his face and Eve looks moments away from pressing her palm to her forehead in vexation, although there’s a knowing curve to her lips. The rest of the section leads are inscrutable, some more successfully than others.

For once, James isn’t at all tempted to smirk at them.

“You have no idea how close I am to just firing the both of you,” M says. “007, make yourself scarce. Report back in an hour. Q, my office, now.”

It’s really very strategic to separate them; James tips his head towards M in acknowledgment. “Sir.”

M makes a short gesture at Eve before striding for the exit. “And turn the lights back on, you’ve made your point.”

Q startles, and the overhead lights flick back on. “Yes sir,” Q says belatedly, and then glances around the room at all the section leads, who are blinking or squinting in the sudden flood of light. “Oh, my apologies.”

“It’s fine,” Tanner says, beginning to herd the section leads to one corner – James wonders idly what they’re going to do about their meeting now – and Eve shoots both of them a pointed look.

“What did I say about reckless acts?” she says.

“I informed Q so he would be aware of the situation,” James says. “That’s the least reckless option I could think of.”

She actually rolls her eyes at him. “You are a troublemaker. Come on, Q. I doubt you’d want M to wait for too long.”

“No. No, that would not be a good idea.” There’s a thread of nervous laughter in Q’s voice now. He glances at James, and then his wing slides reluctantly from James’s shoulders, his pinions folding up neatly behind his back, almost entirely out of James’s sight.

James just smiles, and says, uncaring of who else is listening in, “I’ll see you at home.”

Eve’s head jerks up, and her eyes dart from James to Q and then back again.

The smile Q flashes him is small but pleased. “Yes,” he says, and being able to converse telepathically is quite convenient but James prefers to hear Q’s voice out loud, the plush vowels and strong intonations and rhythmic cadence of his words in James’s ears. “Try not to come back too late.”

James nods. Eve follows Q out, but she shoots James a look that says she’s not quite done with him yet – James suspects she’ll ambush him sometime soon to shake the truth out of him, if she doesn’t already extract a confirmation from Q along the way.

He slips out of the strategy centre before Tanner can finish up with the section leads and waylay James, relishing the way his ribs barely twinge at all when he moves. He has an hour to kill and the firing range would do quite nicely to test how far along his injuries have healed without violating the order of his medical leave.

Either way, the next few days should prove to be interesting; James almost doesn’t mind being grounded, especially if he gets to openly spend that time with Q.

James walks away with the phantom touch of feathers under his fingers.

 

 

 _7._  

The Fabergé egg is a delicate sight on Q’s dresser, set as it is amongst various phone and tablet chargers and the fish bowl that holds Q’s flat keys and assorted silk ties, but Q knows better. Anyone else would put it on display, carefully protected within a sturdy glass cabinet, but the egg is built to last, gold and mother-of-pearl over a frame of thin steel and diamond. Q can think of no better place to keep it than here in the heart of his flat, in the space he comes back to when the day is over and he can put his duties aside temporarily.

He’s staring at it over the top of his laptop when Bond slips into the room, still casually dressed in the same leather jacket – he’d come straight from headquarters, then. Bond follows Q’s gaze to the dresser and then he grins, his mouth curved in the secretive little half-smile that he usually only lets out when Q’s back is turned.

Then again, Q’s surveillance systems are unparalleled. He doesn’t need paranormal abilities to keep watch over his agents.

Q watches Bond now, not bothering to put his laptop away. “Do you still own your Double-O designation?”

“You drove M a hard bargain,” Bond says, stripping off his gloves and tucking them in a corner of the dresser. He brushes light fingers over the Fabergé egg before turning to face Q. “I don’t know why you still get flustered around him.”

“I report directly to him as Quartermaster,” Q points out. “He could easily remove me from the position and simply keep me as a special asset to be called on when my specialized skills are needed.”

“The angelic powers, or your prowess at cybersecurity and all things technological? M is no fool. Keeping you as Quartermaster means you stay with MI6.”

Q sighs. “The question, Bond. Answer the question.”

“I remain a Double-O with no changes to the parameters of missions I take on, although I’m required to finish the rest of my mandatory medical leave before heading back to the field.” Bond leans back, casual and unconcerned. “M also told me quite bluntly that angel’s chosen or not, I still answer to him and that he’ll shoot me himself if I ever did break your heart.”

Q’s wings twitch and now, in private, Bond’s eyes track them, looking to them to read Q’s body language. Belatedly, Q folds his wings back against his spine, out of the way and out of his periphery vision, where he has a tendency to forget they exist. He prefers to go about things the normal way at Q Branch, with his tools and his keyboard when he’s not busy directing his underlings, so there’s hardly any reason to have them out, back when no one else could even see them.

And then there’s Bond, who had come back to him one night after four long weeks and a particularly harrowing mission. Q had woken up to Bond seated in an armchair across the bedroom, his eyes fixed not on Q’s face but on the other side of the bed, where Q’s left wing was a spill of feathers stretched out across the undisturbed sheets on the other half of the bed – because they’d had their distinct sides of the bed by then, for when Bond snuck in for catnaps in between hectic missions and Q stayed up with his laptop, and Q’s pinions are normally quite well-behaved but it had been _four weeks_ —

That had been the first time Bond had seen his wings, solid-looking if weightless appendages gracefully riding Q’s shoulder blades.

They’re months onward from that moment now, but Q still remembers that night like a snapshot, a perfectly capture moment in time, the maelstrom of emotions – relief and fear in equal amounts – that had washed over him. He snaps his laptop shut, leans over to tuck it under the bed, and says the same thing he did back then. “Come here.”

Bond does, moving across the room and climbing onto the bed with a confident fluidity that is mesmerizing to see. Q doesn’t need to move; Bond accommodates his position, sitting half-turned towards Q, their thighs pressed together.

A flash of a devil-may-care grin is all the warning Q gets before Bond reaches up and removes Q’s glasses, careful to touch only the frames to avoid smudging the lenses. Q lets out a quiet sigh, but it comes out more fond than exasperated. There was a time when Q would immediately retaliate – he’s invented more pocket-sized and non-lethal weaponry on Bond’s account than professionally necessary – because Bond would constantly steal his glasses to throw him off-guard and test his reflexes, to gauge how Q handled an attack from an unexpected angle; the Double-Os approach their bodyguard duties quite differently compared to Tanner or Moneypenny, after all.

Then, as their relationship progressed, Bond would slowly and deliberately remove Q’s glasses when he planned to kiss Q within an inch of his life, turning Q’s objections regarding smudged lenses and crooked frames into an act of seduction. Now though, taking off his glasses is Q’s equivalent to James setting his weapons down when he gets back – a signal that he’s entirely off-duty, even though Q can easily check his networks with his powers if he wants to.

James sets the glasses on the bedside table and then wraps one arm around Q’s waist, his other hand settling on Q’s hip.

“All of MI6 thinks I’ve overstepped my boundaries by courting you the way I did,” he says, wry amusement in his voice, “but they don’t know what you’re truly like.” 

Q shifts, pressing just a fraction closer. His eyesight isn’t terrible; at this distance his missing glasses doesn't pose a problem at all. “You started it with the gift you left on my workstation table.”         

“You’re the one who said that a public courtship was part of the ritual to formally acknowledge an angel’s chosen.” James strokes his hand from Q’s hip along the line of his spine to just below where his wings merge into his shoulders, fingertips barely brushing against the down feathers at the base of them. “You really like the Fabergé egg.”

“You know I do. Don’t fish for compliments.” Q manages to keep his voice stern, but his wings spread slowly open anyway. He should hate how his wings telegraph his thoughts, more often than not giving away his true feelings, but James is the only one who can see them and very rarely does he ever take advantage of them. They’re not really _there_ , in the physical sense – they are corporeal enough that they feel like real feathers to James when he strokes them, but he could easily put his hand right through them if he wants to – but Q feels his shoulders relaxing, echoing the languid way his wings are unfurling.

James chuckles, and Q follows his gaze, turning to look at the egg on the dresser, the six gold and mother-of-pearl segments spread open to reveal the carved ship nestled within, a perfect miniature of a three-decker second rate ship.

Q doesn’t usually give in to sentiment, but he can’t think of a more perfect symbol that James could have chosen to put into the Fabergé egg. James is a Double-O, and they both work for MI6. As blunt as James can be despite the supposed secrecy of the Double-O program, working in code and the unsaid comes as naturally as breathing to him.

Fortunately, Q’s an expert at breaking ciphers and he’s always been adept at reading between the lines. The egg’s outer appearance calls to mind Q’s angelic heritage while the secret within could represent James’s royal navy background to the casual eye. Only James and Q would associate the little carved ship with _The Fighting Temeraire_ , and only they would understand the significance of the painting, what it means to their relationship.

And Q can estimate how long it takes for the construction of a Fabergé egg of this complexity, how James must have commissioned the gift weeks before dropping it off on Q’s workstation, and planned for it much earlier than that.

“It’s not quite a bloody big ship,” is what Q chooses to say out loud.

“And here I thought it was the inevitability of time,” James returns glibly, and Q has to smile, because it wasn’t inevitable at all. Theirs is a relationship borne of months of clashing and fighting and somehow growing close to each other in tiny, fiery increments. Q doubts they would have lasted if they’d had to endure the scrutiny and interference from the rest of MI6 then, and so it makes it all the more special that they’re sitting here now, tangled up in each other, comfortable in the way couples become after months together.

“Thank you,” Q says, wanting to touch James in turn but settling for smoothing his hands over James’s shoulders instead. “It really is traditional for angels to have family recognize the partners we choose, and MI6 – and Q Branch, in particular – have become my family. Of course, I didn’t expect the fervour with which they took up the challenge. You’ve had quite a few hard weeks.”  

“You’re fooling yourself if you think I didn’t enjoy openly courting you,” James says. “You gave me a legitimate reason to rile up the entire agency after all.” He casts an appraising look at Q, his fingers tapping a rhythm against Q’s back. “Then again, you’ll cause a much bigger uproar if you ever reveal the fact that we’ve been together for months now.”

“When,” Q says firmly, because they’d kept their relationship discreet in the beginning from necessity and then again during James’s courtship mostly out of amusement, but Q made up his mind long ago. He’ll only have one partner in his lifetime, and he wants everyone to know exactly who he’s chosen, and when.

“Besides,” Q continues, “They’ll start piecing things together. Eve has already figured it out.”

“Of course she has.” James’s voice is amused, and his hand is gentle but firm when he captures Q’s wrist and shifts Q’s hand from his shoulder to his stomach, keeping his hold even when Q pulls instinctively away. “The stab wound has healed now and my ribs are well on the mend. You won’t hurt me.”

“It’s been less than two weeks.”

“And so my injuries have healed at quite an accelerated rate. I know who to thank for that.”

James finally lets go of Q’s wrist and Q shifts his hand away immediately, even though James shows no signs of pain and Q has suspected for some time that he’s healing faster than he should. Not entirely enough time has gone by, after all, for Q to banish the memory of the ugly bruises that covered most of James’s lower torso or the short breaths he’d taken in his sleep because of the pain instead of the deep breathing Q is used to, when James wasn’t conscious to force his body to forgo its natural instincts.

The steady look that James levels at Q is worse than anything he could possibly say, and Q almost wishes for the days when James would rile him up with words and actions alike and Q could easily fight back. They still clash on a regular basis, but for the things that really matter James is now more likely to go quiet and sharply observant, approaching the situation with the same air of gravity that he would level a mission.

He’s willing to invest time and patience, now, to wait for Q to come to him.

Swallowing back a quiet little sigh, Q allows his wings to come forward, folding up behind James's back to envelope him within a feathery embrace. James immediately brushes his hand over the closest wing joint, fingertips gently ruffling feathers into place.

Q fidgets, not quite sure what to do with his hands, and then blurts out, “Are you all right with this?”

James’s hand stills, and he arcs an eyebrow at Q. “Should I worry that you’re asking this question even after we’ve publically revealed our relationship?”

Q lets out a huff of exasperation, but he strokes lightly at James’s side, above the ribs that had been badly cracked just under two weeks ago. “I mean – this. It’s not exactly natural, to heal so quickly. I didn’t mean to, not without asking. But I knew this would happen.”

James’s eyes narrow, although it’s more considering than anything else. “What does ‘this’ entail?”

“Being an angel’s chosen means gaining that angel’s protection. Accelerated healing, greater resistance against things like pathogens and poisons.” Q barely pauses, but he knows James notices the hesitation. “Longer life, I think. It’s not really a conscious thing we angels do – I’m not an angel of healing, after all – but seeing you in Medical shocked me.” His wings pull Bond a little closer. “We weren’t together yet, the last time you were so badly injured. But that’s no excuse.”

“Invulnerability,” James murmurs.

“Not quite. You’re still very much mortal, but you do get a boost.”

“I’ve never heard of this. And the rest of the government doesn’t seem to know about it, either.”

“No. We angels must still keep some secrets to ourselves.”

A shadow passes over James’s expression, his eyes going distant for a moment before sharpening. M, for all his inscrutability, will fight on his team’s behalf against any and all manipulations or threats from other segments of the government, but there are plenty who would use Q as a trump card in their hands, in any way they can possibly think of.

Imagine if they find out that an angel could impart a touch of invulnerability on someone else. Q highly doubts they’d continue plying him with mere bribes.

James’s hands slide back around Q’s waist. “So you’re asking if I’m fine with being bestowed with what is essentially a blessing, something that could keep me alive out in the field.”

Q has to make a concentrated effort to keep his fingers still, or else he’ll be twisting knots in James’s jacket. “Well. Yes.”

“Then, yes. I’m all right with it.” And without any change in tone of voice or expression, James continues, “Are you all right with the fact that you could very well die if I am killed in the line of duty?”

Q’s head jerks up. James isn’t quite looking at him; his hands on Q are very steady, but his eyes are slightly out of focus, half lost in thought, and Q remembers abruptly that James might be quite blithe when it comes to his own mortality, but he has also lost a tremendous number of loved ones – lovers, mentors, friends.

“My mother survived my father’s death,” Q says, and James goes utterly still. A moment later, he pulls back – Q’s wings give way reluctantly – to meet Q’s gaze head-on. Q attempts a smile – he doesn’t give away his secrets lightly, and James’s stare, quiet and intense and yet undemanding, is the only thing that keeps him speaking. “My father was human and quite mortal even if he was an angel’s chosen. He died when I was very young – I don’t really remember him. I hear that she was never the same after, but she lived on. My father’s death didn’t break her heart; her heart was still full of love, after all. For both him and for me, her child.”

James’s hands on his hip and around his waist are grounding anchors, and Q attempts a smile. It’s small and likely a little shaky, but it’s genuine enough.

“So, I would – not be fine – but I would probably survive your death. You won’t have to have that on your conscience.” Q lifts a hand and brushes his fingertips through the hair just above James’s temple, skirting the area where the head wound had been, healed though it is now. “Just. Be careful.”

Q fully expects James to react physically – words alone hold so much less weight in their line of work, after all, and James is a sensual man – and so he lets his eyes slip close when James leans in. But instead of the kiss Q expects, James brushes his lips against Q’s closed eyelids, feather-light and tender, and Q inhales sharply because there’s a promise in that action, in how very careful James is when he shifts to cradle the back of Q’s head, thumb stroking the hollow of his throat.

It’s a quiet moment, just the sound of their breathing between them, and Q’s heart feels full to the bursting with emotion.

“It might be easier,” James murmurs against Q’s temple, “if you collared your teams. Some of those traps can be quite deadly, and it gets tiresome having to run an obstacle course every time I want to see you at Q Branch.”

Q smiles, unbidden, and opens his eyes to a sight he hopes he never gets tired of – James’s gaze, piercingly blue and warm all the same, his face relaxed.

“I’ll send out a memo,” Q says. “The news will cascade over to the rest of headquarters, and then everyone will know that you’re mine.”

He has a moment to appreciate the gleam in James’s eyes before James moves and Q finds himself flat on his back, his wings spilling out across the sheets. They’re in that strange state of being corporeal and incorporeal at the same time, his wingtips going right through the headboard, but Q doesn’t care because James is leaning over him, his entire body now predatorily intent, that familiar half-smile spreading slowly over his lips.

“And you’re mine,” James says, his voice low and self-satisfied.

 _Yes,_ Q thinks, a thought he must end up broadcasting because James’s eyes go darker, heated, and he reaches out to reel James in, with hands and wings alike.

 

\---

Q Branch  
MI6 Research and Development Division

  
To: **All Q Branch staff** (Communications, Weapons and Engineering, Inventories, Biological and Molecular Science, Identification and Security sections)

From: **Q, Head of Q Branch**

\--

Yes, I’m dating 007. No, it is highly unlikely this will change any time in the near future. Please cease your attempts to bar him from Q Branch premises; it only encourages him. If you leave him alone, he’ll cause so much less trouble.

Besides, he’s had free reign of Q Branch for the first eight months of our relationship. I’m not sure what you all think locking him out now is going to do.

 

PS: A paper trail, underlings? A paper trail means a Double-O agent can easily acquire a copy and send it to his boyfriend, because said Double-O agent is a troublemaker. Please practice better discretion.

PPS: My heart is in very good hands. You may take clauses 5 and 6 off your memo.

**Author's Note:**

> [1] This fic has been a labour of torturous love. As frustrating as the writing process has been (writing the multiple POVs nearly drove me to tears) I had great fun crafting the ways that Bond would court Q and all the tooth-rotting fluff to go with them. To quote my beta: "All the cheese! All the fluff!" It also pleases my heart greatly to have Bond and Q in an uncomplicated, relatively drama-free established relationship, even if that isn't evident at the beginning :D 
> 
> [2] Fabergé eggs are beautiful. [The Pearl Egg](http://www.faberge.com/news/191_faberge-revives-the-tradition.aspx) served as the visual inspiration for the egg Bond gives Q. (Have [another link](http://robbreport.com/jewelry/faberge-pearl-egg-first-imperial-egg-nearly-century) where you can see the Pearl Egg spread open to reveal the surprise in the middle).
> 
> [3] Here is **containerpark** 's original prompt: _AU where Q is an angel. Angels are very rare and protected, and together with his role as the Quartermaster, Q is considered a very important person in MI6 (and possibly England). Enter James Bond, the infamous heartbreaker, and he starts courting Q. The problem is, the number one cause of death for angels is having their hearts broken. And the rest of MI6 (especially M) doesn't want their Quartermaster dead just because 007 can't resist pretty things. Or long story short: Q is an angel, who can die from a broken heart, 007 tries to court him and the rest of MI6 doesn't approve._
> 
> [4] Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> [5] PS: I'm on [Tumblr](http://blackidyll.tumblr.com/) :)


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